This will make more sense if you have read the preceding parts.
*
Well, near perfectly, anyway...
The following days were, though, extraordinarily difficult.
The children were themselves, no problem with them, although they were a little less calm after visiting their mother, a little more liable to backchat their father, but nothing serious -- nothing he couldn't handle, for sure.
The routine re-established itself quickly and calmly, no real trouble there either, although for me it became clear that something had changed. Where before I had certainly done my chalet girl job efficiently, with a good attitude, I had never really felt like a servant - I had been play acting at it, knowing that it wasn't going to be my life; doing a good job of it more to prove something to myself than to serve others. This was possible because I knew that I could stop doing the job at any time, that it didn't define me; that although I wasn't in the billionaire class, neither was I born to be a maid.
Now though, the experience of having been so comprehensively, selfishly and thoroughly used and abused by Karsh, of cooking for Karsh, all but naked, my ass alternately swatted and fondled at will, of being offered to Ninotsch like a party favour, all this had changed me.
I knew, now, as a bodily experience, what it was to be in someone's power, to serve because you have no option, to be consumed by the need to serve well, to satisfy, from fear rather than from self-motivation - and what it felt like when you cannot afford to trust your own judgement - when a capricious master is the only judge that matters.
I had learned what it was to be subservient, without any choice in matters that affected me deeply.
This new knowledge made simple acts, like putting up a flask of coffee for the kids, or cleaning their ski gear after they'd come in, utterly different. Although on the surface everything looked the much the same, my experience had been transformed. Any time I made some small mistake, nearly missed some patch of dirt, or realised that I had somehow only put one glove in the overnight dryer (did I mention that there was specialist drying equipment for every imaginable kind of outdoor gear - six or eight sets in some cases?) - each time, I felt a strong flash of fear mingled with excitement, as if a spanking or a beating were imminent, as well as the dread thought of incurring Karsh's displeasure.
I said that everything looked the same, but actually, I'm not sure. Perhaps I was more obviously servile, less talkative, more attentive, more eager to assist with any little thing. A couple of times, for sure, this had been obvious, and the children had looked at me, puzzled, so that I retreated, blushing, or became clumsy, fumbled, humiliated. When Karsh was present, this was ten times worse, as he would laugh at me if he noticed. Not cruel laughter, but complacent - satisfied, entertained to see me so flustered. These moments were both distressing - as they made this new experience of servility harder to ignore - and delicious, as any attention from him was now at a premium.
Because my real problem was Karsh. Not that he behaved badly. The opposite, in fact -- he paid me even less attention than before the kids had gone away -- perfectly polite and pleasant when we interacted, otherwise ignoring me, except for those occasional signs that he was watching, that he understood all too well how it was with me.
This was terrible, because he, this man about whom I knew so little (I had googled him, but found very little, and then realised that Ninotsch probably ran checks on internet logs for security and quickly stopped trying), this man had become the centre of my universe, the axis around which my everything turned, the occupier of my thoughts, my god, my demon, my obsession. I wanted his attention, I missed it dreadfully, even though I had only experienced it for a few hours. Those hours had been the brightest, most alive hours I could remember for at least a couple of years, whatever else they had been.
Nevertheless I resented this annexation of my mind dreadfully, even as I was gratefully aware that thinking about him had displaced the previous default for my churning thoughts - the heavy fact of the pointlessness of my existence.
I couldn't help it though; he filled my days, on every level.
At least half of it, shamefully enough (gloriously enough..), was base desire. I wanted him. I wanted his hands on me, in me, his cock inside me, wanted to be naked for him, wanted to display myself for him (I had dared to use the internet to order more fancy lingerie, more daring than before), wanted to kiss him, lick him, have him maul my breasts; yes, even wanted to be spanked by him (even occasionally imagined him thrashing me again).
I had a hard time not doing anything flirty or tarty when we were alone, such as when I took his tea, or when he came into the kitchen while the kids were out. But he had made his rules both clear and firm, and disobeying him had become almost unthinkable, so that I managed, with effort, to hold myself in check, not look at him, carry on with my duties and try not to fumble (suffering his indulgent laughter at my clumsiness when we were alone was a special torment; at those times it took great effort not to simply fall to my knees, lift my skirts and humbly, desperately beg him to fuck me).
But there were other rabbit holes of Karsh obsession, too, dark and light.
The light ones were mostly magical thinking - silly fantasies of the 'Beauty and the Beast' kind - that he would find that what he felt for me was not transient lust and enjoyment in domination, but was in fact real love (so weak I was, so silly); dreams of being installed by him in some Russian castle as his live in maid cum sex pet, living a life of pampered luxury in between exciting games of lust - the stuff of trashy romantic novels, foolish beyond belief, but oh-so seductive, if I could but refrain from pricking the bubble of my own self-delusion..
Which mostly, I could not, thus ushering in the dark, when what filled my thoughts, what tortured me, was the question as to whether I would find myself living my life as some some kind of property, some sort of a slave - whether Karsh would simply choose to keep me; use his unlimited power and obvious ruthlessness to take ownership of me; simply disappear me. It had sunk in how little care he had for rules and norms, and how vulnerable I was, trapped there on the mountain top.
The question of whether I actively wanted him to do this was a second version of this worry. Had I really been 'turned' by 24 hours of intensity? It should have been an easy question to answer - what kind of a person would actively want to be abducted and put to use as a sex slave? But however uncomfortable, however transgressive, however horrific, I often found myself imagining the scene, when, in a few days time, once the children had left to return to their billionaire class boarding schools, I was booked to remain at the chalet for the the following week, with just Karsh to look after (or would it be Karsh and Ninotsch? Just to be having to consider such questions was madness - utter madness!).
These thoughts tended to run along very dark lines indeed, as I imagined K, turning back from waving the helicopter off, simply grabbing me by the hair, throwing me down, violently stripping me and plowing my ass. Then, having sated his pent-up lust, he would fit me with chains and drag me into the chalet's extensive cellar to thrash me with a horsewhip..
At this point, if I was alone, one hand would be at my crotch, the other grasping my breast, and I'd be bucking my hips and panting, so hot did this grim fantasy get me.
But then, within a minute or two there would come some call, some requirement, and I'd be straightening myself, putting my 'efficient, unflappable, ever helpful Timmy' face back on and preparing myself for duty, unsure whether I'd been rescued or cruelly distracted.
The third flavour of dark may strike you as strange - at least that I describe it as dark; it consisted of imagining my life should Karsh decide that he had no wish to keep me after his stay at the chalet was over.
Although in theory, this should have been the happiest imaginable outcome, the one where I escaped with some exciting, intense memories, but got my freedom back, in point of fact it was impossible for me to consider this without the deepest gloom and self-loathing settling on me.
Where, a week before, I had been ready to grit my teeth and return to university, have another go at coping with the meaninglessness, I now found this unimaginable, and would stray to dark thoughts of suicide, or deliberately addicting myself to heroin, or some other pathetic self-destructive cop out.
This, then was the routine of those days, which pressed in on me increasingly. One shocking incident broke in on it, and near destroyed me.
On the fourth day, the kids had gone out early, being taken by helicopter, long before the lifts began running, to some high and inaccessible point, from there to run many kilometres down to the bottom of the snow-line - some famous route that they had been talking about. They'd be gone all day.
I'd been up earlier, of course, readying their gear and their supplies, and they had got off as planned. I was tired, both from the early start but also from lack of good sleep - strong sexual dreams kept waking me, to add to my disquiet. Karsh had gone with them for once, so that a quiet day was promised, with a late return - they were to eat in a fancy hotel restaurant in some old fort just above the big town in the valley.
I was on my own in the kitchen, trying to be busy, trying not to think, when I heard someone come in, noisily.
A few seconds later, Ninotsch appeared, laden with gear - presumably for some new setup. He seemed confused to see me at first, then embarrassed, then far too friendly, stammering his false bonhomie, forgetting his English - fairly obviously unable to process what he had done to me only a few days ago, unsure how to interact with me now, and obviously desperate just to get away into the study to bury himself in work - some weird parallel of my own experience, I supposed, but I didn't really care. I didn't hate him personally, but the experience with him had been amongst the hardest to think about, these past days, and I wanted as little reminder of it as he seemed to.
I was glad when he went, and glad to hear the study door close - it was quite soundproof - perhaps I'd be able to ignore him, forget he was there.
Fat chance; just seeing him had brought every minute detail back; being presented to him, that first time, naked but for a scrap of an apron, high heels and stockings, cooking his breakfast, having to offer myself to him at Karsh' bidding, tell him he could hurt me if he wanted, him forcing his cock into my mouth so clumsily, then orgasming for him, on my hands and knees, while being hammered from behind, like an animal ...
My knees go weak, and I have to hold on to the worktop for a while, then get myself a glass of water, fighting back the tears, feeling my breasts swell, the nipples tighten, hating my reactions, hating Ninotsch (why not Karsh?), hating myself.
And then there was a sound, and I looked up to see Ninotsch, a strange expression on his face, walking quickly towards me, hand out.
